


The Agreement

by OkayAristotle



Series: Compatible Differences [2]
Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics)
Genre: Choking, Enemies to Lovers, Light Dom/sub, Light Masochism, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OkayAristotle/pseuds/OkayAristotle
Summary: Slade's bored. Clark's frustrated. It all works out in the end. Sort of.
Relationships: Clark Kent/Slade Wilson
Series: Compatible Differences [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766782
Comments: 33
Kudos: 109





	The Agreement

**Author's Note:**

> .....Guess who's back. This time with extra talking in between the smut! This is now a series, apparently. Huh. All the lovely comments last time were so appreciated, really. It's the only reason a second fic exists!

Thick, dark bruises are the first thing Slade sees. _Spectacular_ bruises. Every finger and palm is dug into his skin like a brand, clear as day. A few have healed entirely, only a few hours in, but the palm-print over his ass and the backs of his thighs is deep, tender to the touch. His left cheek had ached fiercely when he'd pried it from his pillow, stiffly making his way to the bathroom.

He flicks the light on with a grunt, feeling slightly hungover or like he's just gone ten rounds with Bane. His fucking _toes_ hurt, not to mention his thighs, and the persistent ache _inside._ Slade braces on the counter, pushing hair from his good eye to take a tentative look. 

Yellowing marks across his ribcage, his shoulder. An angry set of scratches over his shoulders, the very prominent outline of Clark's teeth over abused muscles, leading to the magnum opus; Slade hisses at the first brush of fingers to his throat. Where the marks before had been pronounced and defined, this is just a _mess._

He looks close to a garrote victim — if the garrote was a piece of rebar, and Slade hadn't enjoyed every second of it. "Fuck," he mutters, throat scratchy. He pokes and prods until it becomes unpleasant, one side of his throat swollen and the other finding new depths of purple, and then climbs in the shower to wash off the sweat of the previous night. 

All in all, it could have been worse. He could have died, if Clark were that kind of man. If his control wasn't as tightly held. He knew what he was doing while fucking the life out of Slade with every thrust of his cock. 

Nothing a little bed rest and breakfast can't fix. 

* * *

Slade had debated telling Batman. Just for the satisfaction — the little curmudgeonly set to his mouth, the anger, the knowledge that he'd be having a brisk chat with Superman shortly. The idea is almost enough to make him do it. 

In the end, he doesn't. Too messy. And as with the knowledge of who Superman truly is, it's information best saved for later. Maximum fallout is necessary when it comes to the Bat and his gaggle of littler bats. 

He makes it six months without a reason to come anywhere close to Superman's city and in the end it's for a simple arms pick-up Wintergreen had arranged. He's in and out within six hours with a shiny new grenade launcher to rival his own throwing precision. 

Slade takes it back to the safehouse he'd set up between Metropolis and Gotham a few dozen years ago, back when he spent more time Stateside than he does now. It still proves useful, on occasion. 

The lights come on silently once he's clicked the door shut. Doesn't bother to lock it when anything capable of taking him down will tear through a simple keyhole like wet tissue. 

The bruises had long-faded. There's no lingering ache when he stoops to rummage through the fridge for whatever beer he'd left here last time. The handprints had been _fantastic,_ though. Copious and claiming, Clark's large hands all over him, leaving dark marks wherever he went. 

Slade had spent three days waiting for the hickeys and bites to fade completely. Wintergreen would have sniffed them out a mile away, for fucks sake. 

Point: The bruises are gone. Slade kind of misses them. Breathing's been too easy lately. And honestly, he just wants a good fuck. 

That's a problem. 

* * *

Wintergreen keeps him busy for another six weeks, until Slade starts ignoring his texts and lets his inbox pile-up. There's a few missed messages from Joey, too, and he makes a note to get back to them as soon as he's able. 

It's not that he doesn't want to work. Nothing quite compares to being Deathstroke, nothing comes close. _But—_

But Slade finds himself climbing through Clark J. Kent's apartment window on a whim, almost eight months since the last time. It feels the same, a little trepidation in his gut fighting with the excitement, Slade's feet silent on the plush carpet.

Not much has changed. The fish tank is bigger. The walls have been replastered and repainted a nice cream color, with matching blinds. Sleeker television. Couch still has an ass-print in it. He flicks the laptop on the coffee table open, prompted for a password that he debates cracking and then leaves alone. Another time.

It becomes apparent quickly the lights are on, but nobody's home. Slade flicks a glance toward the tall lamp they'd bickered over last time, and leaves it on for now.

Even without his senses he can tell the place is empty. A quick cursory rifle through Clark's bedroom confirms it, and that just about kills Slade's hopes for the night. He'd have liked an in-and-out thing, quick and done before sunrise, and Slade can limp home to the weird boundary between Metropolis and Bat territory. 

With a twist of his mouth, Slade plucks a beer from the fridge and plunks down onto the couch, tugging the bottom of the mask up to pop the beer cap with his teeth. It's not so late, if he's being honest. Nearing half-nine, but it's the start of summer with lengthening days. Outside, things are almost deathly quiet, save for a few cars and pedestrians. Nice neighbourhood.

It could be a post-work thing. Journalists do that. Friday night drinks after hunching over their computers all day. Some relaxation after hounding no-good public criminals for the week. Rest their weary fingers, or whatever it is they complain about at the water-cooler. Briefly, he wonders if Clark does the same, just to fit in. 

He'd seen the scathing article on LexCorp's industrial waste dumping practices, byline by none other than Mr. Kent himself. It had given him a bit of a laugh, four days after their little get-together. The article might have taken pot shots at Luthor, but it was sure as shit aimed at Slade, too. 

A very clear, very pointed _get out of my city, before I make you leave._ He was more like Batman than he realised, honestly. Pissing in a city doesn't make it yours. Still, Slade had taken the advice, and gotten a little sunshine between the isles of Greece. 

He flicks on Clark's television and settles in to wait. Hours can pass like molasses sometimes, viscous and sticky, until Slade wishes Kentucky's finest bourbon actually had an effect. Having a goal, waiting for _something_ — now that's quick. 

That's nothing. Slade can wait all week for a pulse point to wander past his scope, neutralised before they know who's done them in. Things like _time_ are irrelevant, when everything is measured against the knowledge that he'll hit the mark. He can wait for Clark Kent all the same. 

The beer is pretty shit, and probably for appearances only. He can't quite see Superman getting drunk on a Friday night, sipping his beer like a good little nine-to-five man. Television's not too bad, and Slade cranks it up just loud enough that it doesn't hurt his ears, flicking through the channels until he lands on the national news for a while. 

If he were the kind to doubt himself, he'd wonder what the fuck he's doing here. Comfortable in Superman's two-bed-with-aspirations, feet up on his scratched little coffee table like it's home. Slade toes his bright orange boots off, unlatches the holsters on his thighs. If he didn't know what he was doing, he'd be all kinds of doubtful right about now. 

The beer is some eco-friendly Metropolis brand, tasting a little like the dregs of a firepit mixed with urine. Slade peels the label off, placing the strips of damp paper in a neat little pile next to his M9. Despite himself, his eyes drift from the news cycle over to the thrumming fish tank. 

A small, stylistic castle takes up the left side, surrounded on all sides by a few plants. A few other trinkets litter the bottom of the tank, entertaining the half-dozen fish inside. He had known, logically, that fish-castles existed but he didn't think anyone other than stay at home mothers and grandpa's with a new hobby bought them. Or kids.

Joey had wanted fish. Slade had got him a plain glass tank and two goldfish. Three weeks later, one had killed the other, and Slade had dumped the tank in the trash. 

Clark's obsession with the small, scaled creatures was confusing at best. Of all the animals to latch onto. Dogs seemed more his type, maybe a house cat. 

Slade's pulled from his musings gently by the distant sound of shoes on the stairwell, the scrape of keys against the railing. He cocks his head, taking another swig of beer. 

Kent's unlocking his apartment door within the next minute. He hears the little intake of breath, the sigh, the harder slam shut. The muttered curse. Slade smiles just a little beneath the hood. Getting Superman riled up is easy; his very presence does the job for him. 

"Hey," Slade says, tips his head back on the couch to catch Clark's heated stare when he enters. 

His hand grips the doorway tightly, knuckles whitening. "I told you—" Every muscle is tense, ready for some kind of fight, Clark's jaw set like stone.

"I did stay out of Metropolis." He reminds him, a little forceful. He'd gotten what he wanted, there hadn't been any reason to hang around. "It's been eight months." 

"And?" Clark snaps. He doesn't quite stomp when he rounds the couch, but there's a little teenager-esque edge to his mouth. "We were done." 

"We were." Slade agrees. Shifts on the couch until he can reach the remote, silencing the incessant chatter of the news cycle. Some garbage or other about Star City, or what the fuck ever. This is far more worth his time."I figured we could do it again." 

Clark stares for a long moment, hands on his hips in a strange facsimile of Superman's patented pose. It looks much less intimidating in khakis and a flannel shirt. "You're insane." He finally says, almost slow, like Slade's some kind of idiot. 

He tilts his head, leaning forward slowly to set the beer down. "Say that again," he replies, low and slow, so Kent can hear the simmering under his words. If there is one thing he is _not_ , it's one of those costumed morons getting thrown in Arkham every chance they get. He's a _professional._ He's done his time in Arkham, and he's sure as fuck not going back. "See how good it works out for your neighbors." 

"You come here, threaten innocent people, and expect— what—" Kent waves a hand, exasperated. Next, he peels off the denim jacket, throwing it toward the armchair. "We fuck? That's what you think?" 

"Not a threat. Just a reminder." Slade states. In flannel and tight-fitting pants, he still looks good. Thick hair at the base of his throat, one button undone to his shirt, the sleeves practically begging for mercy. Exactly Slade's type, if he's being honest. "And yes, sure. I don't see why not. You're obviously uptight, I could do with a workout. I even came dressed for the occasion." 

He'd — briefly — considered the Ikon suit. In the end, he'd gone with the old swashbuckling outfit. Feels a little wrong, coming to Superman like this. Nothing but hope on his side when it comes to the violence of Superman's touch, how easily he could plunge right through kevlar and reinforced fabric and squeeze the life out of Slade's steady heart. 

The Ikon suit would have been the smart choice. Slade grinds his teeth a little, and chooses not to doubt. 

"You're—" Clark cuts himself off, looking away. Under his breath, he laughs, a little incredulous. "You're serious? You really want to do that again?" Clark scrubs at his face, groaning. _"Why?"_

Slade hums, debating a little. Lying's kind of hard when it comes to Superman, not that there aren't ways around it. He twists his mouth, content with the truth for now. "I'm bored." 

"You're bored." 

"Yes," with that, Slade pushes off the couch, taking the height advantage to stare Clark down. "And I've been very, very bad since the last time you saw me. So how about you get on with it, and make me bleed this time?" 

Clark's face shutters through a dozen microexpressions, probably too quick for him to even realise it's happening. Anger. Confusion. Surprise. Arousal. Want. Slade sees it all in vibrant technicolor and knows he's got him in his crosshairs. 

"Don't keep me waiting," he adds, slinking back out of the room as he peels the mask off and dumps it in the hallway. "Haven't got all night." 

He makes it all the way to the bedroom, onto the bed and stripping off the underlayer of armour before Clark follows in. When he does, his expression is pinched, that strong jaw clenched tightly. 

"I can't believe this." He mutters. Doesn't look Slade's way, just stares out of the half-shuttered window, the glow of street lamps below. "I can't believe— you're—" He looks damn good pissed off.

"Can you get over whatever this is and just fuck me?" Slade cuts in. Clark can have his downward spiral on his own time. "Or better yet, get it out in a much more enjoyable way." 

"I still don't understand why you want me to hurt you." Clark replies, but doesn't budge where he's standing in the room. Just out of reach from where Slade is. He picks the underlayer up and tosses it into a corner, stripped down to a pair of black boxers and old scars. 

Rather than answer that particular non-question, Slade slips both hands into the waistband of his boxers, one squeezing his half-hard cock and the other playing with the edge of the fabric. 

Clark sighs, a deep thing in the hollow of his chest, and then climbs onto the bed, too. It dips under his weight but not as much as before, Slade dimly noting that it's an entirely new bed. 

"You got a raise." He comments. 

Clark shakes his head, voice muted when he answers. "Promotion, actually." 

Another hand slips into Slade's underwear, knocking his own out of the way. "Good for you." He grinds into the touch, that inhuman heat enveloping his cock, jerking him off in uneven motions. "Nice television." 

"Shut up, Slade." He murmurs, hand tightening until it hurts, until Slade can't help bucking up and chasing the pleasure. 

A grin cuts his mouth and then Slade leans forward to bite into his mouth. "Make me, _Clark._ " Tastes like alcohol, the salty tang of take-out. Beneath that, the organic non-taste of Clark himself, almost numbing on his tongue. The lack of stimulation to his senses is almost maddening, expecting the flavour of another man and getting none. 

A large, skilled hand closes around his throat. No preparation, no easing into it, he holds on and holds on _tight._ Clark bites him back, his thumb digging into Slade's pulse point, tugging him forward. 

Most of Slade's sex feels like fighting. It had with Adeline, when they'd rarely touched without some kind of violence, and every person after had been the same. Fucking Clark is like beating his fists against a brick wall, for all the good it will do him. 

The hand squeezes until the damage is done, Slade's next breath of oxygen raw and hoarse. His lungs burn, quivering in his chest, sucking down air like a drowning man. 

Clark doesn't rip his boxers, just yanks them down Slade's thighs with enough control they don't tear, effectively limiting his range of motion. If he had half a mind, he'd mention it, but then Clark shoves two fingers into his mouth and presses down until he gags. 

The fingers are replaced quickly with another set, and this time Slade bites, knows what's coming even before he's forced into the same position as last time. It was kind of cute, of course Superman liked missionary. 

Clark's quiet, damn well nearly silent. It takes focus to make out the shallow, ragged quality of his breathing, Slade discarding the indescribable experience of being penetrated near-dry to instead memorise the furrowed, dark edge of his brows, Clark's eyelashes fluttering as he works. A faint glow comes from beneath his skin, the promise of a look that could kill.

 _Troubled_ , is the word that comes to mind. Distracted. 

He groans, a gutteral noise, and finally makes his hands fucking do something. Takes Clark's hair in fistfuls and yanks him closer, pleased when the fingers slide from his mouth with a wet _pop_. Clark takes the kiss with a groan of his own, all teeth and tongue.

He kisses back like he's missed it almost as much as Slade. Like he's been bored too, thinking of old bruises and the electric on his skin when Clark stretches him rough and uncaring, the jolts of pain and arousal that become almost indistinct from each other. 

Slade bites the tip of his tongue, teeth aching. Clark grips the sensitive inside of his thigh, digs his nails in until the skin breaks, an almost _audible_ moment when they're both tense like tripwires. He bucks, warm blood dripping down his thigh, smeared across Clark's palm, and nearly shoots off right then and there at the thought. 

How fucking good Clark would look, if he really let go. 

A final finger is added like punctuation, harsh and direct. Hurts like hell, Slade's abdomen drawing tight, and he grinds into it anyway. The drag of Clark's palm down his leg is painful and deep, smoothing down trembling muscle. A new sensation, one that he's truly never felt. Nausea rocks through his stomach, the urge to grip his aching thigh strong and pervasive for all the good it would do him.

If he could think beyond _yes_ and _more_ , he'd wonder what kind of mark that will produce. A wall of tenderness from his knee to his ass, a nice red streak that'll hurt for at least a week. 

Slade's hips jackknife, held down at the last minute by that same hand. Clark makes a noise, almost a word but too much of a growl to make out. He kisses again, doesn't leave any room for reciprocation; licks his way into Slade's mouth hungrily and tips his head back to a painful degree, heavy and possessive. 

"Don't move," he pants, when he's done, Clark's mouth red and wet. He leans down again, suckles on Slade's lip until it feels bruised, too. "Stay still. Be quiet." 

He makes to answer, then thinks better of it when the fingers inside of him slow their rough piston motion, pulling free eventually. Just from that, he feels abused, every nerve oversensitive and barely able to make out each, individual digit. The fingers dip back in, tugging at the edges of his tired muscles, testing. 

Slade blinks at the ceiling, and waits for it, feels the shuffling above him, Clark fighting out of his own clothes, and the harsh bites to his neck, holds still and waits, waits, _waits—_

It's a little less frantic this go around. There is time to feel the imposing width of Clark's cock as he lines up, almost intimidating in how large he is. Slade's not stupid enough to feel emasculated by it, but there's something to be said for being confronted with Superman's cock and finding it to be above average and ready to tear you a new one. 

Like falling from a building, relaxation is key. Lax muscles are best, if he wants to prevent true damage. Slade ignores that rational thought and clenches up, braced against the man above him, Clark seems frozen for a long moment. Just holds there, on the edge of penetrating, an intimidating presence for once.

Slade gasps, hoarse and breathy at the first rock of Clark's strong hips. The head of his cock splits him wide, and then retreats in an unpleasant dry movement. 

"Fuck, okay," Slade pants. Clark dips in again, punctuated by a harsh exhale. He forces his good eye open, to stay that way at the next shallow thrust, pulled out far too quickly. Clark's eyes are screwed shut, that red glow brighter and hotter, Slade suddenly struck by exactly how close he is to something truly dangerous. "Need a minute?" He asks, light and quiet, tongue running over his bottom lip to taste blood. 

"Yes." Clark rumbles, his fingers tightening on the sheets. 

One flutter of Clark's dark eyelashes, and Slade would be gone. Not much can do that. He holds still, shifting only when it becomes too much, every nerve focused on the indomitable stretch at his hole. Clark hisses, dropping his head to rest against Slade's.

He hesitates, then tilts his head until the angle is right; captures Clark in a kiss that's more gentle than usual, warm and wet. "So," Slade murmurs, running his tongue over Clark's soft bottom lip. Clark grunts, hips shifting forward. "Come here often?"

 _That_ gets him, apparently, Clark's eyes opening as he laughs, none of the building heat there. It's a good laugh, deep and smooth. There's a little crooked edge to Clark's left canine, one tiny imperfection that only enhances the rest of his handsome features. 

Superman wasn't voted most attractive in Metropolis four years in a row for nothing. 

"I'm trying not to fuck a hole through you." He finally says, a sigh at the end of his words. "Sorry." 

Slade grimaces. "I'd rather we didn't apologise." 

"Right," Clark nods, perfectly gelled hair brushing against Slade's. "I just— its hard." 

"I can feel that." He murmurs. 

"Shut up. I mean, controlling this. I'm not used to doing it like this." He replies, the words catching and almost forced out. Clark rolls his hips again, experimental, and a further few inches force their way into Slade. "This much force would break bones, usually."

"You fuck a hole into me, or break bones," Slade replies, punctuating the words with a slow twist of his hands in Clark's hair, pulling him impossibly closer. "That's life. My own fault for fucking Superman." He nips Clark's lip, feeling the shuddering breath over his face. "Can't change what you're capable of any more than I can." 

Clark goes silent, and very still, at that. 

"Now, fuck me before I go and find someone else." He lets go, sets his hands where they were last time — gripping the meat of Clark's shoulder like a lifeline, nails deep into muscle. 

Clark swallows thickly. "Very poetic, Slade." 

"Oh, be quiet." He mutters. "I came here for a fuck, its in my best interest to make sure that happens." He rolls his hips as much as he's able, the heat of Clark's cock grinding inside of him, hitting all the right spots. Clark's hips jerk, a rough movement, and then they don't stop. 

It's unrefined fucking, but it's _good._ It scratches Slade's itch until he's raw. Until he can't breathe, not when he's so fucking _full_. Clark fucks into him like Slade's the last warm body in the world, his eyes unfocused and hooded as he stares down, as he traces Slade's jaw and forces his mouth open, kisses him filthy and wet. 

Clark envelopes him, slowly but surely. Every heavy pound of muscle is settled onto Slade, not moving no matter how much he pushes, how much he struggles. Slade's heartrate kicks up exponentially, arousal and excitement mixed together, his own ears picking out the sound of Clark's beating just the same. 

He likes it, just as much as Slade does. And that's _something._ More valuable, perhaps, than whatever secrets Slade has on him so far. 

Where Slade moves his hands, Clark is there, pushing him down into the mattress. When Slade bucks his hips, chasing his own electric shocks of pleasure, Clark bears down and turns his frantic thrusts into slow, maddening rolls of his hips, somehow grinding _deeper_. Slade kisses him for lack of anything else to do, fingers twitching under the heavy pressure of Clark's broad hands, and comes undone with a growl that's met almost instantly by Clark. 

The hands covering his own are gone, his hips stilled. It only serves to make the jerk of his cock deep inside Slade that much more apparent, pulsing as he comes hard and hot. The headboard splinters, tore through like a sheet of paper, and Clark bites down on Slade's neck again, breath coming heavy. 

It's fucking _fantastic_. 

He wants it again almost immediately. 

Slade curses with wet, abused lips, arching into the lingering bite of Clark's teeth. Just as quickly as the pleasure had raged like a fire in his skin, it begins to dissipate, sweat cooling on his skin with the dim reality that Slade's thoroughly _fucked_ , in all senses of the word. 

"Fuck," Clark breathes, eyes screwed shut tightly. His hands flex above them, buried deep in the sturdy headboard. 

"Fuck, yeah," Slade murmurs, chest still heaving, throat still raw. Clark pries his hands from the headboard, splinters sprinkling down on the both of them. "That was good."

Clark hums. His hands shake when they settle in Slade's hair, bringing him up just enough to kiss while they both recover. "Gonna need you to pay for that, too." 

The words are unexpected enough that Slade laughs, eyes flicking up to the damage done. It's nothing too bad, easily fixed compared to the walls last time. "Sure." he licks the taste of blood from his mouth, voice more strained when Clark shifts. Every nerve feels rubbed raw, Slade gasping when Clark reaches between them and grips his cock tightly, pulling out with a grunt. "If you do this again." 

"Blackmailing me again." Clark says, but there's no heat there. He presses a last kiss to Slade's mouth and then rolls over, landing on the bed a short distance away. 

"You can always walk away," Slade murmurs. "Pay for it yourself, I'm not gonna stop you." 

"I'd just rather," Clark sighs, "every time we fucked, it wasn't because you threatened me or blackmailed me." 

"I didn't do that today." 

"You said you would kill my neighbors, Slade." Clark cuts in, head turning to fix Slade with a muted glare. He looks good, post-orgasm and relaxed, one hand splayed out over his stomach and his dick still half-hard. Looks nothing like Superman, now that his hair is ruffled and his mouth is stained pink. "Don't do that again, or I'll figure out a way to put you behind bars."

It's hardly like Slade _would_ kill Clark's neighbours. Of which there are many, when he lives in an apartment block. But even Superman knows Slade only kills for the contracts. It devalues his skills, if he goes on a murder spree over some rejection. 

He raises an eyebrow, meeting Clark's eyes. "So you do want to do this again." 

"That is _not_ the take-away from this, Slade." Clark admonishes, no real heat to his words. They're both a little too fucked out to argue right now, apparently. "And…" he sighs, mouth twisting slightly, "yes, I do." 

"Murder doesn't have the same effect to me," he replies, ignoring the latter half of Clark's words, "as it does to you. It's a job. It comes with me, and no amount of _magical Superman cock_ is going to change that." Every muscle protests when Slade turns onto his side, head propped on his fist. "You can accept that, and we can keep fucking. Or you can try and take me to prison, and we never do this again. No blackmail. That clear enough for you?" He punctuates the words with flopping onto his back again, his hindbrain practically begging for a good cat nap with the window cracked open and the lights dimmed. 

"Yeah," Clark whispers, voice a little thick. "Got it." Slade leaves him to that, the other man content to lapse into silence as well. 

Whether Clark likes it or not, Slade's got blood on his hands, and he's in a little too deep to change that. If he even wanted to. Slade's never felt the urge, and doesn't expect to any time. 

He gets the feeling Adeline had hoped, in some way. If the boys were enough, and their home was enough, then maybe he'd stop. Fact is, if that hadn't done it, then Clark had no chance. 

"Where're you staying?" Clark asks, apropos of nothing, fifteen minutes into their silence. He takes it to mean agreement, for however long Clark can put up with it. 

Slade grunts, a little empty-headed after his orgasm. "Nearby." He finally says. Close is kind of relative. "I'll get gone in a minute." 

Clark nods, raising a hand to scrub through his hair. "Sure," he agrees. 

Despite this, Slade doesn't move. Clark doesn't make him move. Instead, he reaches out, fingers splayed just enough to wind into Slade's sweat-damp hair, untangling the worst of it mindlessly. Earth-shattering orgasms are good, Slade decides. 

"How're the fish?" He asks, dragging a hand over his stomach, grimacing at the sticky remnants of his own orgasm. Clark tugs on a lock of hair, incredibly gentle.

"Good," Clark murmurs. "Thinking of getting a little boat to put in there." 

As far as he's concerned, fish are to be caught on a line. What joy they bring to life as pets, he has no idea. "Kind of funny. Fish with a boat." He snorts.

"That's what I thought." He replies, words a little muffled and slow. Slade cracks his good eye open, choosing not to comment on how Clark had originally listed toward his blind spot and then flopped to the other side instead, giving Slade a convenient view. "You want a shower?" 

He hums. Shower sounds good. Hot water on abused muscle, and a chance to wash the come from between his thighs, mixed with a little blood. He should feel worse about that than he does. If anything, he feels _good_ , more relaxed than he has in months. 

Afterglow is a damn powerful thing. 

He takes the shower, and _doesn't_ turn a shade red at the appreciative look in Clark's drowsy eyes, one hand splayed over his stomach, the picture of comfort. When he returns, Clark has some boxers on, his hair finger-combed back into place and shiny in the bedroom light. 

The bunched muscles of his shoulders make Slade stop, raising an eyebrow. He ties the towel off around his waist, lingering in the doorway. If need be, he could probably make it to the window. 

"I have some rules." 

"Oh for fucks sake." Slade mutters. Discipline, yes. Rules? No. He's a grown man, for God's sake. Older than Clark, even. 

"You want this even more than I do, you can handle a rule or two." Clark cuts in, legs folded under himself on the bed. "First, don't threaten innocent people just to get a rise out of me. Or harm them, because of me." The severe line of his jaw makes Slade a little annoyed, as if he's some unruly child. 

"I wasn't going to actually—" 

Clark glares, leaning forward slightly. "Don't do it." He holds Slade's gaze until he nods, a short and sharp movement. "I think it's best if we keep the details of our respective jobs to ourselves, as well."

Slade rolls his eyes, almost laughing. "Don't ask, don't tell. Really, Clark?" 

He huffs, almost flinching. "You know what I mean. And this doesn't… it won't affect us in the field. I'm not going to go easy on you, if it comes to that." 

Slade's mouth tips at that, freshly amused. "Wouldn't expect any less." He steps into the room tentatively, noting Clark's reaction and the split-second flick of eyes over his torso, still damp after the shower. "Shake on it?" 

"Shut up, Slade." Clark murmurs, almost automatic now. Still, a smile tips up his mouth, clearing the tense set of his jaw from before. 

Slade thumbs the towel around his waist, taking another step. Clark follows the movement like a laser, his chest rising and falling a little deeper. "Make me, Clark." Slade replies, tone low and warm. 

He doesn't bother hiding his laugh when Clark rises quicker than his eyes can follow, the towel ripped away in favour of Clark hiking him onto his hips and slamming him into the nearest wall. A little framed picture rattles on its hook.

Slade kisses back hard, messy and rough, noting the insistent press of Clark's cock through his boxers. Apparently, he's going to be ignoring work for a little while longer. 

**Author's Note:**

> I've come to a few realisations about my Slade voice, and my own headcanons for him, and I think that's helped me perhaps prepare for doing more of this little ship, hopefully soon with some... *gasp*... relationship stuff. All that mushy domestic shit we all know Slade is totally 100% absolutely gonna be on board with, and not at all have a freak-out about. Totally. 
> 
> Also, apparently this is set somewhere in Rebirth's Deathstroke. I have my issues with that version of Slade, big issues. But also a soft spot. (The reference to Arkham is Deathstroke #036 to #040, I do believe. Don't need to know a thing about the series to read this, though.)
> 
> Last time all the comments were lovely, and really meant the world to me. Same again here, as well as kudos!


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